


Untranquil

by pelinal



Series: Hello stranger [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, F/F, Gen, Psychological Trauma, Rite of Tranquility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 07:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17524844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelinal/pseuds/pelinal
Summary: He takes in the room, a look of dawning horror on his face, and presses his hands to his temples. His gaze lights on Sumia, and for a split second he gives her the same terrified, betrayed look as he did ten years ago on that night in Redcliffe, the same one that's etched into her brain like an engraving in a sword. Her chest flutters, and she hopes with every fiber and piece of herself that he doesn't do anything violent, that he doesn't give the Templars an excuse.





	Untranquil

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be a oneshot, maybe 2000 words tops? isn't that fucked up?

Sumia runs a hand through her hair, in some strange way enjoying the cold wind that whips through the air high in the western mountains. She smiles to herself. The Inquisitor is supposed to have personally led the faithful here, scouting ahead through the Frostbacks. A likely story for a girl of twenty who'd never been out of Ostwick. She hopes it's true.

 

The two portcullises, twin gates of dark steel, are open, and Sumia walks through into what she vaguely remembers as the lower courtyard. It's a sight more polished than the last time, though: gone are the ragged little tents and the climbing plants that made it easy to trip on the stone stairway connecting the upper and lower courtyard. Instead the place seems to have been turned into a training ground, and Sumia has to weave through a small crowd of sparring soldiers to make it to the staircase at all.

 

Harding greets her on her way up, leaning against the side of the tavern. "Sumia! Good to see you!"

 

"And you, Harding," grins Sumia. "The Inquisition has certainly bulked up since I saw it last."

 

Harding whistles. "If you mean the courtyard, you haven't seen a damn thing yet." She jerks her head in the direction of the castle. "Remember that crumbling old wreck we met in?"

 

" _ That  _ wreck?" Sumia goggles. "The perfectly maintained castle with the banners and the lights? That wreck?"

 

"The Inquisitor is a miracle worker." Harding folds her arms. "Is what I might say if I didn't know how many good people were a part of this thing. But she's really grown into the leadership role."

 

"She was already impressive, if you ask me."

 

"No arguments there. All that noble schooling, I guess. You should go talk to her though, you'll be pleasantly surprised," says Harding.

 

"Later. I'm here on extremely important business."

 

"By which you mean 'Leliana'."

 

Only partly, Sumia thinks, but she holds her tongue. "Of course! No business more important!"

 

Harding laughs. "In the main hall, on your first right, there's this huge cylindrical room with the longest spiral staircase in the world. Unfortunately, the Spymaster's office is at the very tippy-top."

 

"Lovely. I could use the exercise."

 

"Tell her hi from me."

 

"I will. Cheers, Harding!" Sumia dashes up the stairs into the main hall of the castle. A few important-looking guests in extremely Orlesian outfits glance at her as she races past—she pays it no mind. The room Harding was talking about seems to be a kind of research space, or a library. On the bottom floor, stooped over a desk riddled with papers, is that elven apostate whose name eludes her. He seems absorbed in his work, so she moves on and starts up the stairs.

 

"Good morning, Warden," someone tells her as she passes. She looks back. A man about her age, a shade lighter-skinned than she, in flashy work robes. Nevarran?

 

"Good morning," she says. "Have we met?"

 

"Once. I'm often told I make an indelible impression, but I suppose there are bound to be exceptions." He holds out a hand, half-smiling. "Dorian Pavus," he says, as Sumia takes it.

 

"Oh, you're Tevinter! I thought Nevarran."

 

He snorts. "Now _ that _ I take offense to. Has this country just worn all the Tevinter off me?" Dorian taps his chin. "If that's the case, I should invest in a mabari."

 

Sumia chuckles. "It's a Warden thing, I s'pose. People and not pasts. Or maybe I've just got no ear for accents." She shakes her head, smiling bashfully. "Sumia Surana, although I suppose you know that. Sorry about my spotty memory. I've been preoccupied for the past. . .well. I'm looking for someone."

 

"Oh?"

 

"I mean—that's not my preoccupation, I mean, right now, I'm looking for someone. Leli—I mean—the Spymaster?"

 

Dorian's gaze drops to her side, and she doesn't understand what's so interesting until she looks too, and sees the gold band glinting on her left ring finger. Suddenly awkward, Sumia fidgets with the ring.

 

"I think it's very fetching," says Dorian warmly. "Keep on up the staircase—hers is the spot with all the birds and letters."

 

"Ah, excellent. Thank you." Sumia heads toward the stairwell again—this time she doesn't pause until she reaches the top floor.

 

No Leliana. Just a shrimpy young elven man, leaning awkwardly against the table. Sumia's heart skips a beat when she catches sight of the half-faded brand on his forehead. 

 

"Hello," she says gently, but he seizes up anyway, hard enough to knock an empty bottle off the table. Sumia catches it with her foot before it can roll off the edge and crack that apostate scholar over the head or something. "Hey, it's all right," she says, placing it back on the table. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

 

The boy only watches her with wide, sunken eyes. He starts to tug at his thumbnail with his teeth. 

 

"Er," Sumia tries again, "I'm looking for Leliana. You haven't seen her around, have you?"

 

_ "No," _ he says, and his voice breaks. He slumps to the floor, wracked by quiet, violent sobs. 

 

"Hey, hey," Sumia soothes, kneeling down in front of the boy and looking over his shoulder for a chair or a pillow or something, "I know, the world is brighter when Leliana's around," she (half-)jokes. Spotting a parsimonious little wooden chair backed up against the window, she pulls the boy upright as gently as she knows how, and sets him down in the chair. He draws his arms across his chest—only then does she notice he's bleeding.

 

"They just took me off watch a week ago and I," he covers his face with his hands for a moment, "I've gone and fucked it up again, and she's. . ." He continues to speak in between long, howling sobs, but Sumia can't make heads or tails of it. 

 

What she  _ can _ understand is the dark stain on the forearm of his robes. She reaches out slowly. "Can I?" He nods weakly and then turns his face away again. Sumia rolls up his sleeve and winces; he's made a deep, vertical cut that's still oozing blood at an alarming rate. But she's healed a cut or two in her day. She takes the arm in both her hands and guides energy through it, watching the ends of the wound knit together, and then sustaining the spell for a few more moments just to be sure.

 

She opens her pack and fishes out a spare undershirt that's seen better days anyway, and scrubs off the blood using that. "What's your name?" she asks him as she works.

 

"S-sa. . .Santeri," he manages. Now that  _ has _ to be Nevarran.

 

"Were you part of a Circle in Ferelden?"

 

"N-no," hiccups Santeri. "Orlais. But I grew up here. Only about f-four years ago the Templars took me." He starts to say something more, but changes his mind.

 

"How old are you?"

 

"Sixteen. I showed it late," he smiles the tiniest bit. "I can thank the Maker for that."

 

"So they. . .you're. . .I mean, you're. . .recently. . .?" Sumia means to finish her thought, but the pink, raised sun symbol on Santeri's forehead captivates her. "How long were you Tranquil?"

 

"Two years," he says, starting to cry again. Sumia's stomach turns. They made a little boy of fourteen a Tranquil? One who'd only been there for a couple of years? What could he have possibly  _ done? _

 

_ "Why?" _ she hisses, more to herself, but he's lucid enough to hear it, and it makes him even more hysterical. He shakes his head feverishly,  _ I don't know either.  _

 

A pang of guilt strikes at her heart. She's only making it worse. "I'm sorry," she says, consciously keeping calm and quiet. "I'm very sorry to have upset you, Santeri." Sumia reaches toward him again, but he shrinks away from the contact. "It's all right. You're in a safe place," she murmurs. Eventually he allows her to take his hand in hers. He's terribly cold. 

 

"Don't tell Leliana," says Santeri at last, between shuddering breaths. "I was just doing better."

 

"She'll understand. I promise you she'll understand."

 

"She'll put me on watch again!"

 

"Shh, shh, shh. She'll do nothing of the sort. She trusts you, even if you make a few mistakes along the way. It's a very hard thing you're doing. We all understand that."

 

Santeri sniffles, but doesn't protest any further. 

 

"Now what would you like to do?"

 

"I want," he says slowly, "to stay here."

 

"D'you want me to stay as well?"

 

"No."

 

"Shall I bring Leliana here?"

 

"No," he repeats. "I don't want to be around anyone right now."

 

Sumia bites the inside of her cheek, glancing around the room for anything sharp or otherwise weapon-y. It looks clear. But. . .

 

She looks over the railing. It's a long drop; long enough to break bones, or shatter an unlucky skull. "You understand that I'm a little concerned?" 

 

"I'm not going to jump. I'd look like a bloody idiot if I lived." He smiles. "If I was jumping, I'd go through the door behind you." 

 

Sumia turns; the door he means is inconspicuous, the same brown as the walls. She opens it, and finds that it exits onto the outside balcony, which is a  _ much  _ longer way down. "Santeri," she says, slowly and deliberately, "I don't find that comforting."

 

"What about this? The key's on the windowsill." He walks over and picks it up, sticks it into the lock, turns it, and hands the key to Sumia. She tests it. It's locked fast.

 

Sumia pockets the key and shakes her head at him.

 

"I haven't been on watch in a week! Leliana lets me stay up here!"

 

"Just. . .I'm really sorry, but will you just please sit on the first floor."

 

"You don't trust me."

 

"I don't trust myself not to worry. Please, Santeri? I'll be tearing out my hair all day."

 

With a long-suffering sigh, he hoists himself out of the chair and follows her downstairs. 

 

"Ah, Santeri!" says Dorian as they exit the stairway onto the first floor. 

 

"Hi, Dorian."

 

"Good that you should happen by. The Warden has alerted me to the fact that I seem to have misplaced all my Tevinter, and so I need you to teach me how to go about being Fereldan instead. I've been practicing the accent," he says, and demonstrates. Sumia recognizes the line from an occupation-era Orlesian farce.  _ Oi, get yer hands off me stinkin' mabari, _ and such and such. Horrible.

 

"Maker, stop! That's—so bad." Santeri covers his ears, but he's grinning. "That's only how the humans talk, anyway."

 

"And me," says Sumia.

 

"Yeah, but Alienage accents are so much nicer. And," Santeri turns his ire on Dorian again, "if you want to be Fereldan, you can't wear whatever  _ that _ is!"

 

"Why ever not? Too clean?"

 

Sumia quietly makes herself scarce, but she doesn't miss Dorian's wink on her way out.

 

Low on options, Sumia heads out into the courtyard again. Harding waves her down. "Sumia! I  _ just _ saw her go into the Commander's office!"

 

"Cullen?" says Sumia faintly.

 

"Up on the battlements." Harding points to a tower with a crumbly roof. "Go!"

 

"I feel like I'm being sent on a goose chase," Sumia grumbles, although she shoots Harding a smile before she leaves.

 

"Drinks later?" calls Harding.

 

"Absolutely!"

 

The wind is especially fierce up on the castle walls, and Sumia walks as quickly as she can toward the first tower. A woman in patchwork armor is staring out over the courtyard with her back to Sumia, but as she walks past, the woman stares after her.

 

"Hey!" she calls.

 

Sumia turns around, irritated. "I'm really in a bit of a hurry, here. . ."

 

"You're Jowan's friend," says the woman, and Sumia's heart sinks at the mention of his name.

 

She frowns hard at the woman, trying to put a name to a face. "The Chantry girl!"

 

"Lily," says the woman, looking sour, although that may just be the effect of the fresh scar that travels from the corner of her mouth down to her chin, giving her a constant half-scowl. Her hair is long and faded from what Sumia remembers as auburn to a dark, plain brown, swept into a choppy ponytail. The hodgepodge of armor she's wearing seems to include bits of Templar gear as well as the lyrium-woven boots a Circle mage might wear.

 

"Sumia," says Sumia, trying not to stare. "They sent you to Aeonar, didn't they? How did you escape?"

 

"I was the only one," says Lily simply. Her skin is sallowing and she's starting to grey at her temples, even though Sumia could swear they were the same age. She calls to mind the smooth, round face of the girl in the Circle. If anything, Lily's a few years younger than she.

 

"Well—shit—holy Maker! That must have been—"

 

"I don't want sympathy. I want to leave it behind."

 

"But. . .then. . ."

 

Lily frowns.

 

"Then you're not here for Jowan?" Sumia finishes her thought.

 

". . .No," says Lily, pursing her lips. "I'd no idea he was here."

 

"I am. I'm here for him, I mean. He was my friend, and it's my fault what happened. . ."

 

"His own fault," snaps Lily, rubbing self-consciously at the puffy scar next to her lip. "Seems to've done all right for himself."

 

"Lily, he's Tranquil." Saying it makes her throat close up and her vision blur with tears. Stupid. "Has been since the Blight."

 

Lily's eyes widen just a fraction, but that's all. "Got better than I did." The scar seems to affect her speech; she's as well-spoken as any Chantry girl, but there's a mumbly quality to her words. She's trying to keep her sentences short. "Idiot," she sighs.

 

"It wasn't his fault!"

 

"That's a lie," growls Lily, and turns back to the wall. Sumia is about to start walking again when she adds, "Wish I'd gone with him. We'd have been better off."

 

"I think you would have kept his head on straight," says Sumia. "Can I ask about your scar? I'll tell you about mine," she grins, trying at a joke.

 

"Aeonar. Demon tore my lip halfway off. I don't care about yours."

 

Sumia sighs. Can't she just be a little civil? "Well, look. I'm going to talk to Leliana about Jowan. We. . .well, the Inquisition has been researching the process of reversing Tranquility on those who volunteer."

 

"Re _ ver _ sing it?" says Lily, her jagged mouth gaping. "I want to see that."

 

"You could come with me."

 

"I could," says Lily, and that seems to settle the matter. She nods at Sumia: lead the way.

 

They push through a neat, but cobwebbed tower and toward the one with the bad roof that Harding pointed out. Sumia thwacks the door with the side of her fist.

 

A deep sigh, and a quiet 'for the love of the Maker'. "Come in, I suppose!"

 

That's definitely Cullen's voice, but the moment Sumia steps inside she ceases to care. Leliana is there, as beautiful as ever, and they fly into one another's arms and Sumia catches the scent of Andraste's Grace petals. Tears are glimmering in Leliana's blue eyes when they part, and Sumia kisses her softly, hoping to banish them.

 

Cullen clears his throat. Sumia ignores it and takes her time disentangling herself from Leliana. 

 

"How are you, Mia,  _ ma coeur?" _

 

"So much better for the sight of you," says Sumia breathlessly, tucking a strand of deep red hair behind her wife's ear. "Am I interrupting?"

 

"Unfortunately," says Cullen, studiously avoiding Sumia's eye, "the Spymaster and I were discussing—"

 

"Actually," Leliana interrupts, "this has some bearing on Sumia as well. We were talking," she explains, turning back to Sumia, "about. . .well, about your Tranquil friend." She looks past Sumia at Lily.

 

"It's all right, Leli," says Sumia quickly, "I know her from the Circle. She was Jowan's friend, too."

 

"Hello," intones Lily, with the same resting scowl.

 

"Ah. You are the one who escaped from Aeonar, are you not?" says Leliana, with an expression of sudden interest. 

 

"Lily," says Lily flatly. "I am."

 

"Hm. We will have to discuss that later. For now. . .Jowan. Cullen and I were discussing the. . .security measures we should have in place for the ritual."

 

"It's not done yet?" Sumia finds herself whimpering.

 

Leliana takes her hand. "It is difficult to change the opinion of a Tranquil, Mia. He. . .did not like the idea of becoming overwhelmed with emotions, as some of the others have." She frowns.

 

"So he doesn't  _ want _ —?" Sumia's voice breaks.

 

"Hush. You don't need to be upset," says Leliana tenderly. "We convinced him that the benefits of the process would be much more than the risks."

 

"In so doing, we may have exaggerated the Inquisition's tolerance for blood magic. . ." Cullen puts in.

 

Leliana stares daggers at him. "You can tell Antonia that I will be personally responsible for any harm he causes."

 

"You'll take another under your wing? Leliana, this isn't a mental ward."

 

"Are you just pissed off because it's Jowan?" says Sumia, feeling her voice tremble with rage. Leliana shoots her a warning look. 

 

"I'm 'pissed off', Su—Warden, because we're collectively agreeing to let loose a blood mage in our ranks, at the cost of our own resources!"

 

"You think he ought to stay and be a good little Tranquil, then, is that it?"

 

"I'm saying we might choose a better moment. Wait until we're certain we can contain the—"

 

"He's not at fault for Uldred and the Circle, will you  _ get that through your dense fucking _ —"

 

Cullen leaps to his feet, and Leliana calmly puts a hand on his armored chest. Lily has stepped in, too, grabbing Sumia rather unkindly by the elbow.

 

"We came to this decision days ago, Commander, and it does not behoove you to suddenly change your mind simply because Sumia is here."

 

"What does he care," spits Sumia. "Mages aren't people. 'Specially not blood mages. Eh?"

 

"That isn't fair," says Cullen, letting out a long exhale and fixing his hair. Leliana drops her hand. "I'm thinking of the safety of hundreds of people, and not some personal grudge."

 

"If you want to talk about repercussions, Cullen, think of the fucking precedent it's going to set if word gets out that the Inquisition can cure Tranquil—but they won't lift a finger for people they consider troublemakers! It's exactly like the worst of the bloody Circles was!"

 

"We are here to keep  _ order _ , not lend credibility to every little political uprising! And if we  _ were _ , it wouldn't be the bloody  _ mage rebellion!" _

 

"Oh, I know. This place is crawling with even more Templars than last time."

 

"Well, you'll have to fucking well take that up with the Inquisitor, won't you!" roars Cullen. He takes a deep breath, but he's still red in the face. "Get out of my office."

 

"Cullen—"

 

"Don't," snarls Cullen, staring down Leliana.

 

She only rolls her eyes. "As you like." To Sumia she says:  _ "Je te trouverai plus tard, ma coeur." _

 

"All right," says Sumia, and leaves. To her mild surprise, Lily stays behind with the others. Sumia forces a long, even breath into her lungs. She trusts Leliana. Trusts that she'll do what's best. Actually, Sumia's probably just made her job harder by ticking off Cullen. She frowns to herself.

 

"Harding," she says when she's back in the upper courtyard, "can I buy you that drink?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You know Cullen was right," says Leliana, closing the bedroom door behind her. "It is hard for me to justify freeing a blood mage."

 

"But—!"

 

"I've met him, Mia. I know he has a good heart, but I cannot make the others see. They must take me at my word."

 

"Jowan would never hurt anyone," says Sumia quietly.

 

"Not on purpose. But ten years. . ." Leliana pulls off her gloves one by one. "It is a very long time to be Tranquil."

 

"I met Santeri," says Sumia, and Leliana's face falls.

 

"Isn't he such a sweet boy?" She pulls back her hood and unpins the Inquisition brooch. "He has suffered tremendously, but he is kinder and cleverer than I ever was at that age. He makes that effort."

 

"You heard about what happened today?"

 

"Sumia. Of course I heard." 

 

"He was worried you were going to put him on watch again."

 

"And a mysterious, dashing Warden told him I trusted him far too much for that," smiles Leliana. "Whoever she was, she was right."

 

"You're so good, Leliana, I don't know how you can be real."

 

"Flatterer. We weren't even talking about Santeri."

 

"I was going to say, I know how bad he was in the beginning. And that Jowan. . .oh," Sumia says to herself. The letter. She sits up in bed and reaches for her pack. The letter is right at the bottom, crumpled, but intact. "I wrote this while I was on my way here. You said no more personal letters, so I just held onto it."

 

"Oh?" Leliana sits next to her on the bed, nude now except for her underclothes. The moonlight falls on her gently, making her glow white in the candle-dark of the room. Sumia's eye follows the soft line of her waist, the curve of her breasts in the brassière. (Though no self-respecting Fereldan would call it a brassière.) She cups Leliana's bottom.

 

"Hey!" laughs Leliana, gently slapping the hand away. "Let me read the letter first." And she unrolls the long paper cylinder.

 

"I, er, made a few edits this afternoon. And I was reading it back and I remembered that you'd told me about Santeri the last time I was here, but I couldn't see him, because. . ."

 

Leliana sighs, staring at nothing for a moment. "He has come a very long way since then. But it took so much work, so many long nights. And there are more to come. From Santeri himself, and from all of us trying to help him. You need to ask yourself, Mia, whether you are ready to make those sacrifices."

 

"Of course I am!"

 

"Even if he does not know you? Even if he despises you?" Leliana turns her sharp, interrogating eyes on Sumia. "Jowan is a known blood mage. Nearly no one will have sympathy for him as they have for Santeri."

 

"Leli. . ." Sumia blusters for a bit, feeling her composure dissolve. "I thought you were in my corner on this."

 

Leliana puts a comforting arm around her waist. "I am. I have complete faith in your love for him. If I did not, I wouldn't push so hard to convince the others. But," she says, pulling Sumia closer, "you need to understand the reality of what you're doing. For everyone's sake."

 

"I do."

 

"I know." And Leliana turns her attention back to the letter. Sumia leans into her shoulder, warm and soft, feeling her wife's steady breaths in, and out. In, and out, time and time again, she's too afraid to look Leli in the face. Her breath catches once or twice, and terror seeps into Sumia's bones. Would she hadn't ever written the stupid letter. Leliana's going to leave her. That night at Redcliffe none of them ever want to think about again, and she's put it pen on paper like it's a bloody report. Stupid stupid stupid—

 

"Mia," says Leliana, at a whisper, and Sumia sits upright to look at her. She's crying, and Sumia wants to fall into her, embrace her, kiss her everywhere until all the things that make her sad are forgotten. "I have not thought of Connor in a long while."

 

"I hadn't either. Sorry, I just—"

 

"No," sniffs Leliana, smiling a little as Sumia presses a kiss to her cheek. "it's all right. I. . ." she shakes her head, shaking with silent sobs. Sumia's heart sinks. All her fault, with her stupid letter. "And Alistair too. It all f—eels like—like a lifetime ago."

 

"I'm sorry, Leliana, I'm so sorry. They're my burden, not yours."

 

"How can you say that? As though Alistair and I were not fast friends? As though I didn't look into the eyes of that little boy—" she breaks down again, breathing short, skipping breaths into Sumia's shirt. Sumia cards lamely through Leliana's silky hair.

 

Eventually, Leliana peels herself away, her face pink and her eyeshadow smudged. "I think," she says, holding the backs of her hands over her eyes, "there is a lot of emotion in this issue of Jowan, for both of us."

 

"I feel like I'm dragging you into my misery," says Sumia, smiling wryly.

 

"Of course not!" Leliana kisses her on her mouth, a long, tired kiss full of love and stubbornness that makes Sumia's heart soar. "No one is dragging anyone. We are simply commiserating."

 

"I love you."

 

"I love you too.  _ À jamais et pour toujours. _ Now we should try to sleep. Tomorrow. . .will be trying."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The mage frowns. "What did you say your name was?" Her accent is Orlesian, thick enough that even Sumia can place it.

 

"I did not," says Jowan. "I have been asked not to give it."

 

His hair is cut short. That was the first thing Sumia noticed. He'd always liked it long-ish, as a point of pride, but then that doesn't really matter now.

 

Leliana and Sumia share a look. "His name is Jowan," says Sumia.

 

"That is true."

 

"Is that so," says the mage, although there's no spark of recognition in her eyes. "Good morning, Jowan. I am Senior Enchanter Philomène."

 

"The Circles are defunct," Jowan points out. "You cannot claim any title in their hierarchy."

 

"True enough. You Tranquil keep me humble," says Philomène, giving him a frank, genuine smile he doesn't return. " _ Eh bien _ . . .have you ever been through a Harrowing?"

 

"No. I was made Tranquil instead."

 

"I see. In that case, I will explain this process carefully." She launches into a long explanation. Sumia knows the basics. Fade. Lyrium. The big difference is that here, a spirit will be drawn out specifically for the purpose of curing the Tranquility. 

 

Cullen rolls his eyes impatiently. 

 

". . .may expect some complications, of course, but I trust that has all been explained to you."

 

"Yes."

 

"Then shall we begin?" Philomène's question is directed not just at Jowan, but at the whole room: Sumia and Leliana; Cullen and his little envoy of Templars; Lily, standing off to the side; the Circle mages brought in to help with the ritual. Nods, cleared throats and mutters of 'yes' all around. "Good. Jowan, please kneel here."

 

Philomène signals to the mages, who, drawing on the lyrium, begin to open the portal. On instinct, Sumia starts to tremble—maybe her body's remembering her own Harrowing. She leans into Leliana's side and watches as the very air in the room seems to warp and tear open like a bad seam, a glassless window into the Fade.

 

The knock at the door is ear-splitting, and startles the whole room, but Philomène and the mages keep on casting. "Cullen!" the Inquisitor's voice comes from the other end. "I know you're in there! Leliana! Open this door immediately!"

 

_ "Merde," _ breathes Leliana, as one of the Templars scuttles over and unlocks the door, moving back immediately as it bursts open. 

 

Antonia barges inside, with Sera, a lanky girl in patched clothes who Sumia recognizes from anecdotes, at her heels. "What in the name of the Blessed Andraste," she demands, "is  _ this?" _

 

"It is the ritual to cure a Tranquil," says Leliana, with perfect confidence. "You have sanctioned it yourself."

 

"I beg of you a little respect for my intelligence, Leliana! I  _ know  _ that man is a blood mage!" She points fiercely at Jowan, who makes no response—his mind is in the Fade. "I didn't permit the use of the ritual on blood mages!"

 

"You did not specify, Antonia."

 

Antonia's eyes go wide, and she struggles for words in her outrage. "Wh—you—my entire family has served the Chantry and the Templars for  _ generations!  _ What in the world could have made you think I would  _ ever _ allow this? A volatile blood mage in our ranks?" she cries.

 

"Pure suicide," Sera puts in, looking fearful, "if you ask me."

 

"You both knew I was in Crestwood on business! So what was the plan? Just to have it done before I came back and then beg my forgiveness?" Antonia turns to Cullen. "You've been terribly quiet, Commander."

 

"I'll say nothing in my defense," mumbles Cullen. "This goes against my better judgment, too."

 

"Antonia, please listen. We have deceived you to an extent, this much is true, but Jowan is an old friend of the Warden's, and submitted himself for Tranquility ten years ago." That's a half-truth, and Leliana knows it, but Sumia doesn't argue with her. "He has not killed anyone. Can anyone in this room say that? He turned to blood magic purely out of desperation, and deserves a cure no less than any mage."

 

Antonia puts her hands on her hips and heaves a huge sigh. "Well, Warden Surana?"

 

"Leliana is completely right. And I'd like to add, Inquisitor, that she's done all this as a favor to me. I should bear the consequences."

 

"Unlike the Tranquil, you all have minds  of your own, and will each be responsible for  your part in this. Stop the ritual," says Antonia. "We will proceed from there."

 

"We can't, your worship," says a mage, the only one not casting, in a small voice. "We risk death or worse."

 

"For the blood mage? Do it."

 

"No!" squeaks Sumia. Leliana takes her by the shoulders.

 

"No," says the mage, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else than under Antonia's stern eye. "No, every mage in the Fade with him faces the same risk, your worship."

 

Antonia frowns deeply. Sera loops an arm through hers, casual as anything. "Buckles, this is piss, but you can't kill all of 'em for him. Ten all-right ones for one nutty one? Shite bargain, love."

 

"You're right," says Antonia, in a softer tone. "But the issue of my advisors conspiring against me the moment I turn my back is a bigger concern. I expect to see both of you the moment this mess is concluded." Antonia glares in turn at Cullen and Leliana. "Templars, if the blood mage shows any sign at all of possession. . .you know your job. Good day," she says, and slams the door behind her.

 

Perfect silence, as if no one dares to breathe—at least until Antonia's footsteps are out of earshot.

 

"Are you quite satisfied, Warden?" bursts out Cullen. "The foundation of the Inquisition shaken for your personal—what, pity project?"

 

" _ Cullen, _ " snaps Leliana, but it's too late.

 

Sumia flies at him, her steel gauntlet clicking as she balls her fist and flings the hardest punch she can. Cullen struggles to catch it with his elbow, grabbing her wrist with his other hand. For a single, gleaming moment, they lock eyes, and the first thought that comes to mind is that she could summon her Arcane Warrior's combat aura and break his hold. But it's not worth it. She relaxes, wrenching her hand from his grip.

 

She wants to say something, but suddenly all she can see is white-hot light and the world presses down on her, a lash of pain blooms from the back of her head into a sick kind of pressure, as though her brain wants to break out. Her heart too; it pounds at her ribs like a prisoner. Quietly panicking, Sumia hugs herself tightly. She's going to vomit. She's going to die. Her legs are shaky. Leliana is there, so strong and steady, and the world starts to make sense again. The floor is the floor, the ceiling is the ceiling. At length, she opens her eyes.

 

Painstakingly, Sumia makes herself smile. "Oof. I can't hardly take a Smite anymore. Shame on me."

 

When she was little, there were pockets of older apprentices who sparred secretly with quarterstaves and goaded the greenest Templars into Smiting them on purpose. She would join them often, if only for the thrill of having something the Templars could never take. 

 

"There was no need for that," spits Leliana, glaring murderously at the Templar responsible—a squat, middle-aged man with his sword still pointed at Sumia's chest.

 

"I disagree," says Cullen, still panting a little as he fixes his hair. 

 

"I wasn't even using magic, for the record," breathes Sumia, her fingers grasping at Leliana's scarf as she fights the continual waves of nausea. Each one coincides with a horrible pang in her skull. Maker, it really has been too long.

 

The Fade sputters in the center of the room. One or two of the casting mages twitches in the face as though struggling with a terrible nightmare.

 

Sumia tenses, although she isn't in any shape to walk, let alone fight. In her peripheral vision, Lily draws closer to the mages, curious.

 

"It should be. . ." the supervising mage starts to say, but the ugly, otherwordly gurgle of the opening into the Fade disappearing drowns him out. 

 

The mages collectively relax; the team, according to Leliana, has remained the same for each ritual, so they're experienced enough not to keel over. Jowan, on the other hand, slumps like a sack of potatoes; that must be why they made him kneel.

 

When the Fade opening is completely gone, the room is fixed in a second moment of total silence. Sumia clings to Leliana, watching for the first movement.

 

Jowan stirs. Thank the Maker. One of the mages starts to move toward him, but Lily wards them off. She stands in front of Jowan, waiting impassively for him to sit up, and then holds out a hand. He hesitates, before taking it; she pulls him to his feet with no problem.

 

He takes in the room, a look of dawning horror on his face, and presses his hands to his temples. His gaze lights on Sumia, and for a split second he gives her the same terrified, betrayed look as he did ten years ago on that night in Redcliffe, the same one that's etched into her brain like an engraving in a sword. Her chest flutters, and she hopes with every fiber and piece of herself that he doesn't do anything violent, that he doesn't give the Templars an excuse. They could kill him, and the Inquisitor wouldn't lift a finger.

 

But he makes no move at all. Instead he pulls Lily toward him, hugging her far tighter than must be comfortable, and makes a drawn-out, horrible sound, the same sort Santeri made when he wept. He sobs helplessly, like the world was ending, like a child experiencing grief for the first time. Lily is trying not to wrinkle her nose as she hugs him back. Some of the others in the room look away or cough into their fists.

 

"Can you stand, my love?" Leliana whispers, and Sumia nods. "All right," she says, stepping slowly to the middle and addressing the entire room, "Madame Philomène, please come with me."

 

"You should take a Templar, too," says Lily. Jowan doesn't even acknowledge it. He must be completely dead to the world.

 

Cullen takes a step. Leliana spears him with a glare and shakes her head no. He sighs. "Walsh, go with them." Walsh, the Templar who Smote (Smited?) her, salutes and steps forward. Sumia shoots Cullen a dirty look, and she swears to the Maker his lip twitches. Cunt.

 

"The rest of you, please return to your duties in Skyhold. You will be informed if anything else comes up," rattles off Leliana. The remainder of the templars and mages, including Cullen, file out of the room. Leliana leads the others in the opposite direction, through a back door that leads into the garden, and then into a different room—someone's converted quarters, still furnished with a one-person bed and dresser.

 

Leliana presses her fingers to her mouth, deep in thought. "My love," she says at last, "I need to go and speak with Antonia. I think it will be a long meeting," she says, smiling halfway.

 

"Leli, I'm sorry I put you in this mess." Sumia plants a brief kiss on her wife's temple. "Go. We'll be—" she casts a quick glance around the room, "—it'll be all right."

 

Trailing her hand down Sumia's arm, Leliana gives her gauntleted hand a quick squeeze before disappearing the way they came.

 

Senior Enchanter Philomène and the templar—Wilson—Walsh. Philomène and Walsh have taken opposite corners of the room. Jowan is sitting on the end of the bed, catatonic and clinging to Lily, and utterly ignoring Sumia.

 

"Want to apologize for the Smite," says Walsh, holding out a sheepish hand. "For what it's worth. I thought I'd do it before one of the others did worse."

 

"I grew up in a Circle, ser Walsh. How many times d'you think I've heard that one?"

 

"You can't fault us for doing our jobs." But he slowly lowers his hand.

 

Sumia shakes her head. "We'll keep this cordial, all right? You and I are fine. But that's all."

 

Walsh shrugs, looking put out. 

 

_ "Maker," _ Jowan is saying between hiccups. "It was my fault, Lily, all my fault, I'm so so sorry!"

 

"It was your fault," says Lily, standing. "You lied to me."

 

"Lily," implores Sumia. 

 

"No," says Lily flatly, her face as hard as nails. "Tranquil or not, I won't coddle him."

 

"Please stay," snivels Jowan. "Please, please, please stay with me."

 

Lily walks briskly out of the room. Jowan dissolves into tears again. Glancing at Walsh and Philomène, and with her heart pounding, Sumia takes a seat next to him.

 

"Jowan," she begins, although in the Maker's name she has no idea what to follow it with.

 

"Don't do it, Sumia," he says in an eerily quiet voice. His face is turned away from her. "I need you to leave."

 

There are a million sensible, adult things she could say. _ Of course, Jowan, I understand why you might need space. I'll be close by if you need me.  _ Instead she verges on tears as she blurts "But why?"

 

"I. . ." He's trembling all over now, and he still won't look at her. He makes a strange movement, flings his arms out in front of him and then immediately draws them back. His voice shakes as badly as his body. "I don't know what to do with myself, and I need—you—to—leave, I can't  _ think, _ just please fuck off!" he shouts, and although he looks surprised at his own outburst, he doesn't take it back.

 

Sumia stands and wipes her eyes. "Jowan, if you change your mind, I'll be around."

 

"Fuck off, you sanctimonious  _ bitch!  _ Fuck off!"

 

"Maker's balls," she hears Walsh mutter under his breath. Philomène shakes her head, but when she notices Sumia's eyes on her, she offers a small, sympathetic smile instead.

 

Sumia sprints out of the room and closes the door behind her. She doesn't even make her way out of the garden proper, just crouches and sobs into her hands at the base of a fountain with a statue of Andraste as its centerpiece.

 

"Hello," says Lily's voice. Sumia ignores it, and by the time she's scraped herself off the grass, she's surprised to find Lily still standing there.

 

"Hello," she says.

 

"I heard that Blight was real after all. And that you stopped it."

 

"I didn't stop it. That was a Warden named Alistair Theirin. There's a monument in Denerim." Sumia sits down on the stone edge of the fountain. "You really didn't hear anything about that?"

 

"Didn't hear much of anything. Nothing I wanted to hear."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"I'm here now," says Lily with a shrug.

 

"You said you wanted to see someone be cured of Tranquility. So you have. What happens now?"

 

Lily toys with the scabbard at her hip. "I was angrier than I expected. I think I'll keep my distance." Unprompted, she goes on: "If it wasn't blood magic or if he hadn't lied to me. Everything could have been different." She has a deep welt in her tongue, Sumia notes, probably from the same strike that tore her lip.

 

"Burying yourself in 'what if'ery is a really bad idea."

 

"I'm not buried." Lily sits down and swirls her gloved hand in the water. Sumia wants to tell her to stop, she'll ruin the leather, but it looks quite ruined already. "I heard shouting. What did you do?"

 

"Nothing just then," Sumia follows the ripples with her eyes. "But he's got cause enough, I think. I. . ." She doesn't want to say it. She trails off, hoping Lily won't ask. 

 

And she doesn't.

 

Sumia kills time for the rest of the day—checks in with Santeri, and meets one of the other ex-Tranquil, a girl of nine or ten from Kirkwall, who, despite (or because of?) her age, seems to have made a perfect recovery. She buys Harding the drink she promised. None of it feels right. She's waiting for a summons, for word from Leliana, or Jowan, or the Inquisitor. 

 

"What's going to happen now?" she asks, when Leliana has finally staggered into their shared room. Leliana falls onto the bed. Sumia shuts the door and falls beside her, pulling Leliana into her arms, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her forehead, in a slow, undemanding rhythm. "Do you need anything? Shall I get us tea?"

 

"I'm all right, Mia." Leliana lies still and closes her eyes. Sumia waits a moment and kisses her swiftly on the nose. Leliana tries to suppress a smile. Sumia hovers her face perhaps inch from her wife's face, a staring contest with one player. Leliana flutters open her eyes and blinks as though waking from a long sleep, giggling helplessly and pretending to push Sumia away. Sumia rolls toward the middle of the bed, and Leliana straddles her instead, grinning down at her, and Sumia grins back like a fool.

 

"How are you, Leli?" she whispers.

 

"Better now."

 

Sumia puts both hands on her waist and they sit up together, kneeling face-to-face on the bed. "How did it go with Antonia?"

 

"She is. . .not happy. She kept us nearly the whole day." Leliana smiles. "When Josephine found out, she started to scold Cullen and me, too. She planned us a few weekly. . .'integrity meetings'."

 

"Maker. That's a fine mess."

 

"It is, isn't it?"

 

"What about Jowan? And me, for that matter?"

 

Leliana sighs. "As much as it frustrates her, Antonia cannot touch Jowan now. If it comes out that she allowed a blood mage to be cured of Tranquility, it will look the worst on her." She winds a short strand of Sumia's hair around her fingers. "She has no jurisdiction over you, but she mentioned that she may choose 'not to extend you further hospitality'."

 

"Fucking Maker. I just got here," Sumia half-laughs.

 

"She isn't serious, but you would do well to try to make it up to her."

 

"Oh, good. What flowers does she like?"

 

"Mia. You can't fix everything with flowers."

 

"Flowers worked on you."

 

Leliana giggles; the loveliest sound in Thedas. "Antonia is a more practical sort."

 

"I'll think of something." Sumia leans forward and unpins Leliana's silver Inquisition brooch, then the hood and scarf.

 

"I went to see Jowan after Antonia and Josephine let me go," says Leliana as she works.

 

"Oh?" 

 

"He. . .did not want to see me. Or Cullen, strangely. He thought we had taken your side."

 

"I didn't know there were sides," says Sumia around the lump in her throat. "And Cullen wouldn't take my side if my side was going to bring back the Maker. He knows that."

 

"Well. . .the three of you have a history in the Circle, no? I assumed he meant that."

 

Oh. Sumia changes the subject. "Is there anyone with him?"

 

"Ser Walsh."

 

"Just the Templar?"

 

"I told Philomène to rest. Sumia," says Leliana before Sumia can speak, "he will be fine."

 

"What about after tonight?"

 

Leliana bites her lip. "We agreed when the first Tranquil was cured that we could not commit men and women to guarding them. We can't assign anyone to stand watch at night, and sleep during the day, because their schedules need to match with the rest of the Inquisition's people in case they are reassigned."

 

"So what did you do when Santeri. . .?"

 

"I assigned myself," says Leliana simply, rising from the bed to take off the rest of her chainmail.

 

"Ugh," says Sumia, falling backwards into a pillow. "How can I do that if he won't—?"

 

"I know you're frustrated. I promise you it will be all right with time."

 

Sumia takes a slow breath, watching Leliana undress. The smooth motions of her toned arms are sort of calming, and beyond that, there's the quiet bliss she always gets watching her wife do anything. The way she moves, the way she shakes her hair out of her eyes. She's just Leliana—which is still, somehow, the giddiest thought. "I love you. Have I mentioned that?"

 

"Perhaps in passing," says Leliana wryly. "I love you, too."

 

"You know I feel terribly rough next to you. Even your chainmail is perfectly tailored," grins Sumia, gesturing at the mail dress-tunic thing draped across the desk chair. "You know this is the only shirt I own now? I couldn't get the blood out the other one."

 

"Mia," says Leliana, in quiet horror. "We must take you to a clothier, and soon." She giggles again, pointing at Sumia's ratty armor, in a miserable pile on the floor next to the chair. "I know you're a Warden, but just  _ look. _ It looks so sad."

 

"It. . .yeah, I s'pose it does, doesn't it?"

 

"Now that I think of it, being a Warden is no excuse! I spoke to Commander András at a ball in Halamshiral, and he was head to toe in glittering, perfectly polished Nevarrite plate!"

 

"Because he lets Zevran dress him!"

 

Leliana huffs. "Perhaps I should dress you, then!"

 

"I'd rather you did the opposite," says Sumia, putting on that smirk Leliana finds insufferable.

 

And she rolls her eyes, of course, but she kisses Sumia anyway. "I think an emblazoned belt would look amazing on you. With a dragonbone buckle."

 

"I have to say," breathes Sumia as Leliana undoes her bra(ssière), "I like the sound of that."

 

"It would make you look a bit taller as well, I think. Inserts in the boots?"

 

"So I can lead when we dance?"

 

"You can always lead," says Leliana quietly, blushing as deeply as a schoolgirl even as she lavishes her gaze on Sumia's body.

 

Sumia is past the point of speaking.

 

 

* * *

 

"Gmorning," says the little ex-Tranquil girl from Kirkwall—Cynthia—as Sumia enters the garden. She's dug herself a little pit in the grass, elbow-deep in mud.

 

"Good morning, Cynthia," smiles Sumia. "What're you doing?"

 

"Finding worms. I think it's funny the way they wriggle." She looks up for a moment, and Sumia smiles wider to see her plump face is streaked with mud as well. Her brand is faded further than Santeri's, little more than a tiny thread of silver in the sunlight. Two weeks, compared to two years. . .compared to ten. "I won't hurt them! I put them right back."

 

"I know."

 

"Do Wardens ever collect worms?"

 

"I'm sure some of them do," says Sumia, biting the inside of her cheek. "I know a few who seem like the type."

 

"Can worms get the Blight?"

 

The thought of worm darkspawn makes her skin crawl. "I certainly hope not."

 

"OK," says Cynthia, returning to her work. That's their business concluded, apparently.

 

Lily is sitting by the fountain again. "Here for Jowan?" she says by way of a greeting.

 

"I don't know yet," Sumia answers honestly. "Can I ask you a question?"

 

Lily shrugs one shoulder.

 

"How old are you?"

 

"Twenty-nine."

 

"Ah."

 

"Why?"

 

"Well—just—" Sumia sputters. "Just curious."

 

"What would you have said?"

 

Sumia looks her in the face. Forty. Forty-five, easily. "Older. Not that I think you're ugly. I like the silver on you."

 

Lily snorts. "It's grey."

 

"All the same. You have this aura of. . .invincibility, sort of. I can count on one hand the people I know who give off that impression." Duncan comes to mind first.

 

"Are you trying to proposition me?"

 

"No!" cries Sumia. "I'm happily married, thank you. I'm only telling you what I see."

 

"Ah."

 

"I wish I had what you have. It commands respect. That's always useful."

 

Lily shrugs again. "I'm going to wander around," she says, stretching her arms as she rises from the fountain. She leaves without ceremony.

 

Sumia, for her part, heads for the Tranquil quarters — where Jowan is now the only occupant. She knocks cautiously on the door. No answer. She pushes. The door won't budge. 

 

"Jowan!" she calls, feeling silly. "Jowan, it's Su—oh, bloody Andraste, you know who it is!"

 

Nothing.

 

"Is Walsh in there?"

 

Nothing.

 

"All right, you don't need to let me in, but will you give me a sign or something so I know you're all right?"

 

Nothing. Sumia folds her arms.

 

"I can play the waiting game. The sooner you say something, the sooner I'll be out of your hair."

 

Nothing. Sumia tenses for a moment—and then, finally, there's the  _ thunk _ of a pebble or something being flung at the door on the other side. Sumia bursts out laughing, that heaving, catastrophic sort of laughter that's closer to weeping. "I consider that a win!" she tells the door, taking intentionally heavy steps so he can tell she's left.

 

Sumia heads straight up to the tavern and buys a corked bottle of Redcliffe ale—which, surprisingly, the Inquisition stocks. She looks around for a runner she could bribe with a few silvers. Not a templar, obviously. And not one of the slack-jawed Inquisition recruits—that's how rumors start to spread about the mysterious Tranquil mage in the garden and should Jowan give one of these yokels his name,  _ someone _ is bound to recognize it and kick up a fuss and—

 

"Give it to me," someone says. Sumia looks up. A young man of twenty, if that, picking idly at his fingertips in a similar way to Santeri.

 

"Sorry, what?" says Sumia stupidly.

 

"The same dark bottles they'd sneak into the Circle when we were young. Brown malt, lightly hopped, whatever that meant. We only had the one sort. He'll think of me."

 

Sumia says nothing. She looks the young man—she's inclined to say "boy"—in the eyes, trying to discern his intent, but he won't hold her gaze. "You're a bit. . .sorry, that's a bit like something you might hear in the Fade, isn't it?"

 

"Yes! But not like that. Dreaming dimly, drinking the draught without decision. The deal is dream or death. 'Dream on'. Demon. I'm different. I can help."

 

"You. . .look human."

 

"Like Mouse and like that little boy. I am not possessed, nor possessing. I can help," repeats the young man, emphatically.

 

She'd like to think she can recognize a demon when she sees one. And this is not a demon. "D'you have a name?"

 

"Cole."

 

"Cole. Will you run this bottle over to the. . .er, if you head into the garden and take a right into the building proper, you—"

 

"I know."

 

"Excellent. Er, will you hang on for a minute?"

 

"You want to write a note."

 

"Yeah," says Sumia, deciding to just accept that she's talking to some sort of half-spirit outside of the Fade. Maker knows she's seen weirder things. She resolves to ask Leliana about this Cole.

 

"It's the gesture. He'll know anyway."

 

"Yeah. I'll be back here in a bit."

 

Cole nods. Sumia darts away in the direction of the castle proper and returns still scribbling out her note against the firm cover of a borrowed book.

 

_ Hi, Jowan. _

 

_ Too nostalgic? I'll pick out something different tomorrow (and yes, there will be a tomorrow). _

 

_ Mia, _ she writes, and then thoroughly crosses it out, and writes "Sumia".

 

"He won't mind any more than he does already." She hadn't noticed Cole approach her.

 

"It just doesn't. . .feel right, to be all familiar and pretend like nothing's changed."

 

"I'll take them." Cole holds out his hands. 

 

"Sure. Er, your—?"

 

"I don't need silvers," says Cole, tittering as though the thought was ridiculous. And he disappears.

 

The next few days are punctuated by Sumia's nights with Leliana, and started off in the mornings by her visits, such as they are, to Jowan. The little deliveries become routine, each accompanied by a note. A tray of  _ petits fours _ at Leliana's suggestion. A dog-eared copy of the first part of  _ Swords and Shields _ . A vase of wildflowers in fountain water—Cole reminds her to sprinkle some sugar in, too, so they last longer. It's what Leliana does with the little cup of Andraste's Grace blooms on her nightstand.

 

One morning, perhaps a week and a half from the day she first returned to Skyhold, Sumia pounds on the door. "Jowan!" she calls, exasperated. She could have sworn she was making progress—even if it was just that pebble-thing being thrown at the wall, or the thump of  _ Swords and Shields _ on the table, the little daily signals came quickly now, and reliably. She misses the sound of his voice, but that's neither here nor there.

 

"Jowan!" she shouts. "Come on, are we back at square one?"

 

"Maybe," says someone from behind her. She startles like a rabbit, spinning around to face Jowan. 

 

"Good. . .morning," Sumia says uncertainly.

 

"What was it going to be today?"

 

". . .A bottle of rose-water."

 

_ "Perfume?" _

 

"No. A scent for the room. There's a bit of lemongrass and chamomile in it too, and a whole sprig of lavender that sort of bobs around when you move the bottle. . ." She trails off, with a small, nervous laugh. "I can still fetch it if you like."

 

"That's. . .all right," says Jowan, with a strange look on his face. His hair's grown out a bit.

 

"So are you off watch now, or?"

 

"They stopped locking the door. I suppose that means I can do as I like now."

 

"And Walsh?"

 

"The Templar? He was only there for the first day. Maker's fucking  _ breath _ , Sumia, are we going to stand here and talk about  _ nothing?” _ he shouts, suddenly, and then immediately breathes out a slow sigh, running a hand through his short black hair. "I'm working on that. I still am right pissed with you, d'you know that?"

 

"I know," says Sumia, with difficulty.

 

"Well, don't bloody stand there and sniffle as if  _ you're  _ the one who's been done wrong! I—" Jowan pinches the bridge of his nose. "Come in, will you?"

 

"Sorry," she says, wiping her nose as she steps inside. "On the—bed, or—?"

 

"They didn't bloody buy me a chaise longue, so that'll have to do for the moment, won't it."

 

Sumia takes in the room. It's well-kept for the most part, but there are several fist-sized dents peppered around the far wall. A few loose book pages and half-dead flowers are strewn across the nightstand. She returns her gaze to Jowan. "Are you still wearing those Tranquil robes?"

 

"Brand's not coming off either, not without the rest of my fucking forehead," Jowan laughs, insincerely. "So." He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear—his knuckles are dark with bruises.

 

"I put you through so much bullshit."

 

"Because of Redcliffe? Is that what you think?"

 

Sumia blinks. ". . .yes?"

 

Jowan looks at her, and his face is pure outrage. He starts to say something and then stops himself. He begins again: "When I was really little, Sumia, even before the Circle, I had. . .I don't have a clue whether she was my nana, but she was an old woman and she lived in my house, so."

 

"I think that's a fair assumption," says Sumia, with a crooked smile.

 

"And she would sleep entire days away. I don't know if she ever even woke up in between. She had some wasting disease. And every morning, and every night, my mum would come in and spoonfeed her some watery porridge she'd make especially for my nana, and she'd open a book, and it would be the same one every time, an old picture book with talking rabbits and frogs, and she would read the whole thing to my nana. Sometimes she would have me do the voice of the frog. Why," says Jowan in a wavering voice, "do you think she did all that?"

 

Sumia shrugs, feeling like she's back in the Circle, on that stone floor that made her bottom feel flat as a dime, being lectured by a Chantry mother.

 

Jowan wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Actually, I don't know. It's not as though I can go back and ask her. But my best guess would be this: she did it out of love."

 

"Love," says Sumia, trying to telegraph her confusion with her eyes. Why bring this up?

 

"I spent ten years in that tower, Sumia. Or—" he holds up a hand before she can say anything. "Nearly thirty years, Maker fucking help me, and for the last ten I was Tranquil."

 

"Yeah."

 

"And I saw hide nor hair of you. For ten years, Mia," his voice starts to wobble again and he has to cut himself off, "nothing."

 

"I. . ." Sumia's heart drops into her shoes. "I came to the Circle once."

 

"Not for my bloody sake!"

 

"I had no idea what they'd done."

 

"What  _ you'd _ done! What  _ you'd _ done, Sumia Surana! Why can't you admit that?"

 

"You're right. It was my fault," says Sumia, feeling loathsome. "I—I—listen, I—didn't think it would make a difference. You—"

 

"Because of you, I spent ten years Tranquil, and you won't afford me the common fucking decency to face that fact. What am I supposed to make of that?"

 

"It was that or watch them  _ execute _ you! D'you think I was in my right mind? D'you think any of us were? I  _ told _ you to run!" Sumia unclenches her trembling fists and instead laces her fingers together. "I didn't think there was any point. In visiting."

 

"Well, I couldn't feel anything, granted, but I still had eyes and ears! Even when they took me here, d'you think I couldn't tell you were avoiding me?"

 

"I—didn't—" Sumia searches frantically for the words, but there are no words. There's a huge, desperate blank.

 

"So. . ." Jowan scoffs, his eyes wide and watery. "I can't—are you serious? Are you quite fucking serious?"

 

"Jowan, I'm so, so sorry."

 

"Fat lot of good that does! Just—" Jowan puts his face in his hands for a moment. " _ Are  _ you the one person left in Thedas who gives half a rat's arse about me, or am I on my own?" He doesn't give her the chance to respond. "You should've just left me Tranquil. Now you've cocked up twice."

 

"Don't  _ say _ that!" says Sumia, reaching for him. He shrugs off her touch.

 

"It would've been better for everyone. Except you." Jowan stands and walks out into the garden.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She knocks again the next morning. Nothing. Not a sound, no matter how much she coaxes. Sumia sinks down, leaning into the door, and sits just like that for an hour or more. 

 

"I always was more of a morning person than you."

 

"Maker's balls, Jowan," says Sumia, stifling a surprised yelp. "Will you stop doing that."

 

"I didn't do anything! I went for a walk and found you moping."

 

"I have that rose water if you want it."

 

"I think I will take it, actually," Jowan inclines his head in the direction of the door, "they've stuck me in such a stuffy little pit."

 

"Then d'you want to go to the Herald's Rest instead?" Sumia holds out the rose water, a little teardrop phial with a sprig of lavender that floats around when the bottle is agitated.

 

"The what?" asks Jowan, taking it.

 

"The. . .tavern?"

 

"There's a tavern in this place? I never left the garden." An awkward smile comes to his lips. "I—I've never set foot inside a tavern, come to think of it."

 

Sumia's heart twinges at that. They both missed out on so much in the Circle, but she's had a decade to make up for it. "I'm sorry."

 

"Oh, don't ruin the mood. Let me put your perfume—"

 

"It's  _ not _ —"

 

"—away, and we'll go."

 

"Drinks on me?"

 

"Well, I should certainly hope so, because I don't have any money."

 

"Fair enough."

 

The Herald's Rest is busy as ever: the bard is singing a song that seems to be about Antonia's girlfriend; a bar fight is already being broken up between an ornery dwarf and a Dalish woman with several twigs in her hair; two mages are discussing which varieties of elfroot can be smoked, and to what effect.

 

Almost immediately, someone grabs Jowan by the arm, a pasty human with loads of freckles. "Oi, magey," he says, eyeing Jowan's brand, "will you get me a rum from Cabot?"

 

Jowan draws back his fist and punches the man full in the mouth. He doesn't have great form, or, she suspects, much strength to speak of, but it was unexpected enough that the man falls out of his chair. "No, I don't think I will, thanks," says Jowan calmly.

 

"What the fuck?" gasps the man, scrambling to his feet. His friend stands, too, and lunges for them. Sumia puts up a barrier, the kind that only Arcane Warriors can, shimmering and shifting between green and purple.

 

"We don't want any trouble," says Sumia, as the two men start to batter the barrier. 

 

"Blood magic!" cries the freckled one. "That's not of the Maker!"

 

"If you'll just calm  _ down _ —"

 

" _ Gentlemen, _ " says Cabot, leaning across the bar. "If you can't play nice, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."

 

"He's not Tranquil! He's faking!" cries the freckled man hysterically, pointing at Jowan. 

 

"I don't care if he turned into a dragon. What I saw was you picking a fight, Lowrie, as per usual."

 

"But Cabot—"

 

"Take a walk. I'm not gonna ask again."

 

The freckled man, Lowrie, drags himself miserably out. His friend shrugs and sits back down, pouring both half-finished ales into one tankard.

 

"Thanks, Cabot," says Sumia.

 

"No trouble at all." Cabot winks.

 

"Well," she tells Jowan as they take a seat on the second floor, "that's going to be a whole fucking thing."

 

"Not my fault."

 

"I didn't say it was. Shall I pop back down for drinks? What do you fancy?"

 

Again that pinched, embarrassed smile is on Jowan's face as he looks down at the bar and studies all the bottles in different sizes and shapes. "I dunno what any of that stuff tastes like."

 

"Er, shall I just get that Redcliffe ale again?"

 

". . .no. Just get two of whatever you're having."

 

"Right," says Sumia, and heads downstairs again. "Cabot," she asks the bartender in a low voice, "you don't happen to serve any cocktails? Anything with cream or fruit?"

 

"That's. . .different from your usual."

 

"I've a sweet tooth today."

 

"Well, if you're sure, there's one that girl Flissa—the barkeep in Haven—she taught me one with whiskey cream, coffee, milk, and honey, cake crumbs on the rim. . .I gotta charge extra for the ingredients and prep time."

 

"That sounds perfect. Will you go easy on the whiskey?"

 

"Now you're really not sounding like yourself, Warden."

 

Sumia grins. "How much do I owe you?"

 

"Let's say thirty a pop?"

 

She places a glinting sovereign on the counter. "That's two and a tip."

 

"I'll send Irina up when they're ready."

 

"Thanks, Cabot."

 

Jowan frowns when he sees her come up empty-handed. "My order is a bit on the complicated side," she explains. "It'll be up soon."

 

"All right."

 

"Are you. . .er," Sumia clears her throat. "D'you still stand by what you said yesterday? About staying Tranquil?"

 

"No," says Jowan, after a short pause. "But I'm not convinced you didn't do it to stop yourself feeling guilty."

 

Sumia bites her lip.

 

"That's what I thought."

 

"Then why are you putting up with me?"

 

"Well, you are helping your case by coming to bother me everyday. You could almost fool me into thinking you give a shit."

 

"I  _ do! _ "

 

"No, you just want for everyone to like you. Which is an odd thing to want when you treat people like lab specimens."

 

Sumia winds a strand of hair around her fingers and tugs. "Will you just tell me what you want?"

 

"I want you to take this fucking seriously!" Jowan shouts, and for a moment she thinks he's going to upend the table with how quickly he springs to his feet. "That's all I ever wanted! No excuses about how tired or sad you were that night, and no promises to make everything better, because you can't. I want you to understand that you can't bloody well snap your fingers and undo it!"

 

"Then listen," says Sumia shakily, standing as well, so that they're at eye level. "I  _ understand  _ that I did a horrible, horrible thing to you, and that I can't take it back, no matter how badly I might want to. But Jowan," she says, starting to snivel despite herself, "I want to do everything I can now to help you make a life. If you'll have me. You're my brother—"

 

"—No. Stop. D'you honestly think that because we cut our palms as little children and wished really hard for it, that makes us family? Honestly. You've lived so much more than I have, and you're still so fucking thick."

 

"Jowan—"

 

"Maybe once upon a bloody time I would have agreed with you. I'd have said that family sticks together no matter what, like my mum and my nana. But you turned tail the  _ instant _ I was Tranquil. I stopped being a person to you. And I s'pose you showed me what I really am to you, eh? Not a brother. Not a friend. Nothing."

 

Sumia sits down, slowly, her face burning and tears and snot running down her face unchecked. "What the fuck d'you think you would have done, exactly?" she seethes. Jowan opens his mouth, but she continues: "Just imagine you were twenty again. Imagine you had no clue at all what was going to happen in the next ten years. Imagine your best friend in the world was going to lose everything that made them _ them _ ."

 

"I would have come. I swear on the Maker and on everything holy that I would have visited you constantly. Am I the Warden in this version? I'd have told you about the Blight, about my adventures, everything. You'd have gotten sick to bastard death of me."

 

"You'd never think 'what's the fucking  _ point” _ ? You could tell me all the stories in the world, Jowan, I'd just give you the same blank look. Never smiling or crying or getting angry or anything at all. And you'd keep that up for ten years? Without knowing what you know now about Tranquility? Without knowing there could ever be a cure?"

 

"Absolutely I would," says Jowan, blinking rapidly. "Until the day I died."

 

"Well, you can say whatever you like now, can't you?"

 

"You see? You don't believe in me and I don't believe in you. Is that family, Sumia?"

 

Irina, the tall dark Antivan barmaid, comes up bearing two light-brown drinks on a tray. She serves them with a sunny smile, although she can't have missed both of their weepy faces. " _ Provechito _ ," she says politely, and leaves.

 

Sumia wipes her nose on her sleeve and takes a drink. It's lovely—sweet and a little cloying without the whiskey to break it up. A bit less bitter than she personally would have liked, but at least it'll be kind to a beginner. "Go on," she says, watching Jowan eye his glass. "It's good."

 

Jowan takes a cautious sip and immediately makes a face. "It's gone off!"

 

"No, it hasn't." Just to be sure, Sumia tries it again—nothing suspicious except the hot, barely-there taste of whiskey. "No, it hasn't gone off," she confirms, grinning. "That's the drink. Try waiting a bit, and then taking another."

 

Jowan blushes a deep red and twiddles his thumbs for a moment before taking another sip. "That's. . .a bit better," he says, guarded.

 

"You get used to it."

 

"D'you know what happened to Amell?"

 

"Sol—you mean Solkr?"  _ Amell. _ Sumia smiles.  _ Amell _ , as if he didn't spend half his time during lessons doodling the name Solkr in the back covers of his books. Of course he would ask about Solkr.

 

Solkr Amell was a few years older than they were—the son of an elven father and a mother from a noble house, he was often the ringleader of the clandestine sparring groups. Stocky, dark-skinned and curly-haired, with subtly pointed ears and a thin scar that ran down across his lips, he made for a memorable sight. He was well-liked, easy-going, sly, but not especially good with books and studying; he only passed his Harrowing weeks before Sumia herself did. Although, he did escape the Circle—there might have been some secret brilliance about him after all. Jowan would definitely say so.

 

If possible, Jowan goes even redder. He manages another sip of the drink. "You know I do."

 

"He survived the mess with the Circle. I dunno how he did it, but he escaped the tower in the chaos and didn't get caught again." She smiles. "He sent me a letter of congratulations when the archdemon had died." When Alistair had killed it. 

 

"Huh," says Jowan, apparently more to himself than to her.

 

"I don't think he knew what happened to you. And he couldn't come back to the Circle, anyway; they probably still had his phylactery." Sumia picks a cake crumb from the rim of her glass. Maybe the phylacteries  _ were _ destroyed, for all the wreckage in the rest of the tower.

 

"How in the Maker's name did he get out when his phylactery was still—" Jowan breaks off his thought with an exasperated laugh. "Bloody Solkr."

 

"I'm sure my—I'm sure Leliana could track him down, if you like. She found you."

 

"Well, I was wandering the Hinterlands like a. . .half-witted nug."

 

"Who knows. Maybe he will be, too."

 

"You're mad," says Jowan, shaking his head, although a small, genuine smile has crept up on him.

 

"So d'you," Sumia begins, feeling her confidence falter, "d'you want to go and buy some new clothes in Val Royeaux sometime? You've never seen Orlais. And Leli says I should get some new armor, and I mean, you in those robes. . ."

 

"I want to go to Redcliffe."

 

Sumia forgets to breathe for a moment. "OK. We can do that."

 

"I want to go inside the castle."

 

"Jowan, Bann—Arl Teagan's going to know you from a mile away."

 

"That's fine," says Jowan, taking a self-assured swig of his drink. "I've been made Tranquil."

  
  


* * *

 

 

On the evening they head out—two days after their visit to the tavern—fat, murky drops of rain bombard Skyhold, turning the lower courtyard into a morass of swampy mud.

 

"This is certainly auspicious," smiles Leliana.

 

"Sorry to duck out again so soon," says Sumia, and plants a rain-soaked kiss on her cheek.

 

"Oh,  _ allez _ , Mia," scoffs Leliana, putting her hands on the sides of Sumia's face and kissing her deeply on her mouth. Sumia smiles into the kiss and tangles her fingers in her wife's hair, pulling her as close as possible. "Be safe, all right?" Leliana whispers as they part at last. "Don't do anything silly."

 

"I'm never silly," says Sumia, fully expecting Leliana's giggle and Jowan's derisive snort.

 

The cart takes them down the same way Sumia came up to Skyhold; a broad, brand-new cobblestone road that cuts gently eastward through the Frostbacks. Sumia smiles to herself, remembering all the perilous little mountain paths she struggled through in the days of the Blight. The Inquisition has certainly changed things.

 

"So who's she to you?" asks Jowan, jolting her from her daydreaming.

 

"Leliana? She's—well, she's my wife." Sumia holds up a finger in a 'just wait' gesture and wrangles the gauntlet off her hand. The plain gold band shines dimly in the weak torchlight.

 

"You're  _ married? _ Maker." 

 

"Have been for. . ." Sumia frowns. "Nearly five years. Funny thought."

 

"Oh, stop grinning like that. I'm getting queasy."

 

"You two should talk sometime," says Sumia, continuing to grin like that, "I'm sure you'd get on like a house on fire."

 

"Mm," says Jowan, looking out over the mountains.

 

"D'you think you might have had something like that. . .with—?"

 

"Well, I can't bloody know that, can I?" 

 

They sit in sullen silence for a while. When the last of the daylight has disappeared past the horizon, and Lake Calenhad sparkles in the distance, black as pitch, Sumia speaks up again.

 

"Have you spoken with Lily much?"

 

"She won't see me. Everywhere I am, she suddenly isn't. Exactly like you were doing when I came to Skyhold."

 

Sumia shifts uncomfortably. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

 

"It's not worth very much. And I was only answering your question."

 

"All right."

 

"She has every right, though. To be angry." Jowan rubs his hands together. Sumia lights up a small fireball to follow them and ward off the chill of the night. "Thanks. D'you know—did—did they really stick her in Aeonar?"

 

"She was there for as long as you were Tranquil. That scar on her mouth is from her escape."

 

" _ Shit, _ " Jowan hisses, and kicks the front end of the carriage hard. The driver doesn't seem to notice. They lapse into another silence. "Where did you have your wedding?" he says, after at least half an hour.

 

"In the cathedral in Denerim. It was so lovely—both of us all in white and wildflowers. . .our friends seemed to pop up from all over Thedas for the ceremony. Mother Dorothea officiated—or, Justinia, now, the Divine." Sumia clears her throat. "The late Divine."

 

"Sounds beautiful."

 

"Jowan—"

 

"No, I mean it."

 

"I'm sorry. I wish I'd invited you."

 

Jowan laughs scornfully. "That's not to say they'd let me go."

 

"But I could have asked."

 

"Well. You'd have had at least one person there who was guaranteed not to cry." He looks her in the eye—he's not being cruel. Just joking. As friends do.

 

"I wanted you to walk me down the aisle," says Sumia, and the mood shatters.

 

"You what."

 

"Neither Leli or I had any family to do it, we said 'whoever's got the best idea will be in the aisle'. She asked an old friend of hers, but he turned her down flat. I thought  _ maybe _ Irving? But—"

 

_ “Irving?" _

 

"—but I threw that out right away. In the end, I got a friend I met during the Blight. It was nice, he was lovely about it, but. . .you know."

 

" _ Shit _ , Sumia. You can't just casually drop that into a bloody conversation."

 

Sumia shrugs. "I thought you should know."

 

"I'm surprised you didn't get Cullen," says Jowan, suppressing a smile.

 

"I hope you're joking."

 

"Of course I'm joking. Honestly," he scoffs.

 

"D'you think you would have married Lily?"

 

"Not this again. Why are you so pigheaded about 'what if' this and 'what if' that? It doesn't  _ matter. _ "

 

"Yes, it does."

 

". . .d'you remember that day Solkr rocked up while we were playing and pointed at you and said 'Sumia Surana, will you marry me?' Never mind we were all about eight."

 

Sumia bursts out laughing—she can't help it. "You and I both realized something about ourselves that day."

 

"Fucking Maker, I was green with envy. I thought if I'd been sitting a foot to the right maybe he'd have pointed at me. Because yeah. That's how it works. You _ cried!" _ he chuckles. 

 

"I was inconsolable. It was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. 'I don't want to marry Solkr!'" she whines, in a high, fluting imitation of her child self. "'How do I undo it? I want to marry Keili!'"

 

"Did you really?"

 

"I did then. She was nice to me. But she got all self-hating and preachy, and it was a bit scary, honestly. Not to mention she only had eyes for her hymnal," Sumia snickers.

 

"Mm."

 

"I remember Solkr found me huddled in a corner, screaming my head off—you were at lessons, but I skipped because I was so upset—and he unwed us."

 

"He started making you do chores and fetch his books or else he'd marry you again!" cries Jowan, between peals of laughter.

 

"Oh, that was so mean. He was wicked, but he was clever. No wonder he ended up escaping."

 

"I hope he's all right," mutters Jowan, fishing tangles out of his hair with his fingers.

 

"I'm sure he is."

 

The silence that follows is much more comfortable—it doesn't hurt that Sumia's eyelids are starting to droop. The warmth of the conjured fire and the rhythmic bumps of the cart quickly lull her to sleep.

 

When she wakes, it's because someone is shaking her shoulder with all their might. "Sumia," the someone hisses, alarmed. Sumia groans and shifts to a more comfortable position, and the someone elbows her hard in the ribs. "Ow!" she shouts. "Bastard!"

 

"Fucking wake up, then!"

 

"I'm up!" Sumia brushes away the hair plastered to the side of her face as she surveys the scene. The carriage has been halted by a small group of men and women in armor without any heraldry. They've fanned out to block any escape routes.

 

Sumia puts a hand on Jowan's shoulder. "Stay here," she whispers, and hops off the side of the cart. 

 

"A fine evening to you, Grey Warden," says a smarmy-looking young woman with short, greased black hair.

 

"Evening," says Sumia. "D'you think we could get on with this, please?"

 

The woman smiles scornfully, exchanging glances with a few of her fellows. "Certainly. We're asking for forty sovereigns if you'd prefer we stay on good terms."

 

"Do I—?" Sumia laughs, unintentionally, and indicates her battered armor. "Do I  _ look  _ as though I'd be carrying forty bloody sovereigns?" She absolutely is, but that's beside the point.

 

"I've named my terms."

 

"Have a little sympathy. I've got maybe two silvers to my name at the moment. Not too many handouts for Wardens when the Blight's ended."

 

The woman fixes her with a hard stare, lost in thought, until the man to her left whispers in her ear. "Oh! That's good. We'll accept that Tranquil instead."

 

"What on earth _ for?" _

 

"Hear tell they make excellent help."

 

Sumia grits her teeth. "Kill me first if you want to find out." And she Fade-steps out of range of the first sword. As the bandits cluster around her, she forces them to keep their distance with an arcane barrier, and conjures herself a shining greatsword. One of them tries to tackle her from behind; she throws him backward with a simple force spell.

 

"She's a mage!" one of them cries.

 

"No mage I've ever seen!"

 

The ringleader has a very decent set of plate. No easy opening anywhere, in fact, except for her unhelmeted head. Heart pounding, Sumia decapitates her with one great swing of the razor-sharp sword, hoping it'll intimidate the others out of fighting—and one or two do go running when they see the corpse fall, blood fountaining from its neck-stump in spurts, but another only screeches with rage as he lunges at her, flooring her with the force of his weight. She blocks his sword with her own greatsword—his vicious face is green and distorted through its surface—and manages, with effort, to throw him off. She steps on his neck before he can get his bearings and grinds her foot until the bone pops and crunches beneath her boot.

 

Three more surround her. One's not wearing greaves, just linen trousers. She tries to get behind him to slice at a knee or an ankle, keeping an eye on the other two. Someone shouts, but it's not trousers guy—one of the remaining two is struggling with—Maker's fucking breath—Jowan. She feels for the dead woman's sword and slides it in his general direction with her foot, and then blasts all three bandits, flooring them for a bit, so he has time to grab it. Jowan scrambles for the blade and body-slams a dwarven woman wearing plate Sumia's never seen outside of Orzammar.

 

Trousers guy has found his feet again—but not for long. Sumia wills the greatsword in her hand to narrow into a longsword and slices him across the back of one knee. He goes down, shrieking, and while Jowan clashes with the dwarf, Sumia focuses on the final bandit, a man in chainmail. He darts and dodges her swings, a shortsword in one hand and a mean-looking dagger in the other. Sumia takes the defense, and it's all she can do to block his swings until he runs up to her faster than the eye can see, throws his arm around her in a strange embrace, and with the other hand, buries the dagger to the hilt in her gut.

 

"Sumia!" Jowan cries, and the dwarven woman takes the opportunity to swing her maul at his leg, flooring him. Inadvertently, Sumia lets out a frustrated scream and throws a white-hot fireball at the man in chainmail. She regrets it immediately—he's still close enough for the fire to have singed her, and as the fabric edge of her cuirass smolders, the man's eyeballs dissolve in the heat. He shrieks and shrieks as he's cooked alive in his own armor, and Sumia kicks him to the ground and thrusts her blade deep into his chest as quickly as she possibly can.

 

The dwarven woman has broken Jowan's leg and was on the verge of bashing his head in to boot, but there's no tuning out the screams of a man burning to death. She meets Sumia's eye with a profoundly disgusted expression. Sumia lights another fireball in her free hand and the woman's eyes go wide, "no, please," she shouts. Sumia feints with the fireball, intentionally firing it a few inches too far left, so that the panicked woman throws herself desperately to the right, away from Jowan—she lands badly, twisting her ankle, and that's all the opening Sumia needs to throw a Stonefist spell squarely at her chest. The impact sends her careening backward, and dents her chestplate, but she stands her ground. Sumia throws another. This time there's a resounding CRACK and the woman falls forward, clutching at her chest.

 

Sumia staggers over to Jowan. "All right?" she says, breathlessly.

 

"Me, all right?" He props himself up on his elbow, wincing as his leg is jostled. "You've got a fucking knife in you!"

 

"It happens." Sumia grins. "Can I ask you a favor?"

 

"No, Sumia, I'm not—"

 

"Will you pull it out?"

 

"No! What if I mess it up?"

 

"It's the easiest thing in the world," says Sumia, over the ringing in her ears. A  drop of sweat runs over her upper lip. "I'll tell you exactly what to do. Just sit up a bit more, if you can. . ." Sumia kneels, gritting her teeth so hard against the lancing, intrusive pain that she thinks she might crack one.

 

Jowan sits up, as best he can, looking positively green as he eyes the jeweled dagger hilt.

 

"Just grab it, yeah? Don't pull, don't twist, don't do anything for now."

 

"Fucking Maker," sighs Jowan, but he wraps a trembling hand around the end of the dagger. "Isn't pulling out the knife meant to be horribly dangerous?"

 

"Yes," says Sumia, putting her hands on her stomach, on either side of the stab wound, the fingers splayed out as far as she can make them. "I'm a good hand at healing, though. Better than I was in the Circle, anyway."

 

"It's your funeral."

 

"Have a little faith," Sumia laughs, but it turns to a sharp, shaky inhale when the motion sends a bolt of pain all through her torso. "Ow. OK," she says, taking a steadying breath. "Are you ready?"

 

"I suppose?"

 

"I'm going to count to ten. Slowly. And by the time I've said 'ten', I want the knife to be out. Try to be as smooth about it as you can, and to keep it straight."

 

"Keep it straight?"

 

"I mean it needs to come out as close as possible to the way it went in. So try not to pull it out crooked."

 

"All right," says Jowan, putting his other hand on the hilt.

 

"Ready? One. . ." The dagger shifts, and Sumia tries not to make a sound, focusing instead on her belabored breathing and the gentle glow of the healing magic. "Two. . .three. . .four. . ."

 

"It's sticking. Sumia, it's sticking."

 

"Don't panic. Make sure the blade is straight and pull a bit harder if you have to. Five. . ."

 

_ “Sumia." _

 

"Six. . .se— _ o-oww!  _ Fucking shit!" He's pulled the thing all the way out in one go—it's excruciating, like being stabbed all over again.

 

"I'm sorry! I _ told  _ you it was stuck!"

 

Sumia can't speak for a moment—she screws her eyes shut and searches for any remaining damage in her body, sealing vessels and flesh tears as she senses them. When she's made absolutely certain, she slowly lowers her hands and opens her eyes.

 

Jowan looks at her reproachfully as he leans forward and brushes his thumb across her cheek. Sumia touches her other cheek with her fingertips—she's crying, and not just a few pretty theatre tears either. Neither of them speaks for a moment, but Jowan puts an arm around her as she regains her bearings.

 

"It's just how your body reacts to being stabbed," says Sumia, eventually, still sniffling. "Nothing serious."

 

"When did you become such a rock?"

 

"I'm not a rock. Let me take a look at your leg."

 

"Please." He rolls the robe up to his knee, and Sumia winces; the leg is swollen, colored every shade between red and purple, and a sharp, pure white bone shard sticks out in the middle of the shin. Her first instinct is to cast a soft ice spell to soothe the inflammation. Jowan relaxes into it a little bit.

 

"Is this your bad leg?" asks Sumia.

 

"I'm surprised you remember." Jowan seems torn between fascination with his mangled leg and complete revulsion. "No, though. That's the other one."

 

"Then I'll do my best not to give you two bad ones," says Sumia, biting back a smile.

 

"You'd better do."

 

"I have to set this. D'you want me to count off?"

 

"No, I think it's best if you j—" his breath catches as Sumia starts to set the bone, but it's done before he can react. "Shit."

 

"All right?"

 

"Y-yeah, oddly enough."

 

Sumia's lip quirks. "Then it worked." She takes a deep breath in and pours all her remaining energy into reconnecting the bones, watching for the tiny, treacherous fractures that cause lifelong aches. The agitated muscle and tendon, too, need to be repaired, and above all everything needs to be aligned. "Did you take up swordfighting in the Circle?" she says, idly.

 

"What? No, I—I tried to cast something, but it—I couldn't."

 

"Well, thank you, in that case, for jumping into the thick of the fight with a sword you couldn't use." Sumia cuts off the spell. "Try to stand up." She holds out a hand—Jowan takes it without hesitation, and she struggles a bit to hoist him up, but they manage. "How does it feel?"

 

"Good. . ." He frowns. "The way my other leg healed, the knee, I had this sense of dread that I was going to feel it for the rest of my life. I don't feel that with this one."

 

"All the better, right?"

 

"Yeah."

 

Sumia dusts off the front of her armor, which is relatively blood-free, except on the shoulder where she got hit with a bit of spatter from the decapitated bandit. "It's normal for it to feel a bit tender, but if you get any aches like in your other knee, then make. . .make sure. . ." She can't seem to finish her thought. Her head hurts. Lake Calenhad, glittering with moonlight in the distance, starts to tilt.

 

"Maker's breath, Sumia!" Someone has caught her before she keeled over. Sumia's eyes drift shut.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When she cracks open her eyes again, the sky is a light grey and Lake Calenhad is practically close enough to touch. She realizes dimly that she must have slumped into Jowan's shoulder as she slept. She quickly rights herself, becoming conscious of a heavy-limbed, exhausted feeling all over her body.

 

"Morning," she says, tasting her own foul breath. "Did we pack any water, or am I going to have to drag my fool self into the tavern?"

 

" _ I _ packed water." Jowan gestures at a small waterskin leaning into the far corner of the cart. Sumia leans forward and grabs it. As she uncaps it and drains the thing halfway, Jowan eyes her. "D'you remember about last night? You fainted."

 

"I'm all right now," Sumia half-lies. At least she doesn't feel the stab wound anymore.

 

"Stupid to do all that without any lyrium."

 

"That's a funny way of saying thank you."

 

Jowan shakes his head, and then looks her up and down. "D'you usually just sleep in your armor?"

 

"These are the only clothes I own. You see why my wife wants me to do some shopping."

 

"Ew. I wouldn't marry you in a thousand years."

 

"Good thing, too, or I'd have to start crying again. Water?" She shakes the waterskin a little, so that it sloshes. Jowan holds out his hand for it—she hands it over.

 

Ten minutes later, the driver pulls them into the Redcliffe stables and after thanking her, Sumia and Jowan take a walk through the village.

 

"Does it look how you remember?" 

 

"I've only ever been to the castle."

 

"Right." Sumia fixes her belt. "So what's our plan? D'you want to see a tailor and get some normal clothes first, or?"

 

"I think I'm more convincing this way." Jowan takes a deep breath, smooths out the hem of his deep purple robe and and schools his expression into a mask of perfect calm. "Do you disagree, Warden?"

 

"Fucking nug shit on a stick," curses Sumia, tensing up. "I really hate that, Jowan, I really do."

 

"We may raise suspicion if I act Tranquil in front of the Arl, but revert to my normal self in the presence of, for example, a tailor."

 

"OK—fucking Andraste—OK, we're doing this, I s'pose."

 

"It may also be a chance at redemption for you." 

 

Sumia whips around and glares at him. Nothing. No impish smile, no twitch of the eyebrow. She could easily believe that he's Tranquil again. "You arsehole."

 

Jowan says nothing. They head up the steep footpath to the castle. One of the guards stops their advance—a young man with red hair. He shoves the point of his spear into Sumia's face. "Halt. Identify yourselves."

 

"You can point that thing elsewhere—I'm a friend of Redcliffe. Please tell the Arl that Warden Sumia Surana would like to see him."

 

"Warden Surana?" says another guard, a middle-aged woman; she would remember the Blight. "The Hero—of—?"

 

"That's what they call me, although there's a statue of the  _ real _ Hero in Denerim. Will you please speak with the Arl for me?"

 

"Who's that with you?" says the first guard, studying Jowan's brand with pursed lips.

 

"My associate, Jowan. As you can see, he isn't a threat to you."

 

"Good morning," says Jowan, in a perfectly even tone that makes Sumia shudder. She covers it up by crossing her arms.

 

"We aren't armed," she says. "You can search me for any blades if it makes you feel better."

 

Before the younger guard can say anything, the older woman steps forward. "Wait here, if you please, Warden." She heads through the portcullis into the courtyard and speaks with the guards stationed outside the inner gate, one of whom enters the castle. Sumia picks at a loose fleck of leather on her worn vambrace.

 

"So how was it? Miss—Ser elf. Warden. Er—" the younger guard blusters as he tries to find the right words. Behind her, Jowan's cough sounds suspiciously like a snort.

 

"Just 'Warden', please."

 

"Warden. How was it? Fighting the archdemon?"

 

"Grueling," answers Sumia honestly, grimacing at the memory. "It was like a high dragon, only it could summon endless waves of darkspawn to defend it. Horrible. When the fight was over, half of us couldn't stand up in order to leave the battlefield. We had to wait for the Arl—Arl Eamon, that is—we had to wait for Eamon's men to come and get us, and hope we didn't bleed out."

 

"Oh," says the guard, looking distinctly disappointed. "I was hoping for something more. . ."

 

"Glorious? Storybook? Riveting?"

 

"All of those things."

 

"I'm sorry, in that case. The banquet afterwards was quite nice, though."

 

The guard smiles. Uncertain what to say next, he turns his eyes on Jowan and takes a gentle, condescending tone with him, as if he were a child. "And how are you today?"

 

"I am well," says Jowan, stepping forward and bowing his head politely. "Thank you." Sumia sees him tightly cross the last two fingers of his left hand behind his back.

 

"How did you two meet?" pries the young man.

 

"We grew up together in—right there, actually," says Sumia, inclining her head toward the tower on Lake Calenhad, a tiny pinprick in the distance. "Although I hear the Circle's been disbanded now."

 

"I was made Tranquil at the Warden's request," says Jowan, and Sumia's heart freezes.

 

"You ordered that?" says the young man, wearing a childlike expression of shock. "Your friend?"

 

Oh, she could kick him. "It was a complicated time," mumbles Sumia, scratching at the back of her neck. "It's not my place to say. You could try asking the Arl, but I don't recommend it."

 

"But don't you—? I mean—" The guard's gaze flits helplessly between Sumia and Jowan.

 

"I had my reasons. And now I have my regrets. That's all I'll say."

 

"All right, Warden, sorry to bother you, I can tell it's a sore spot—"

 

"No worries," says Sumia quickly, cutting through the poor boy's babbling. "No worries at all."

 

The other guard has returned in the meantime, gesturing for them to follow her. Teagan greets Sumia with a hug the instant she steps into the hall, and she feels a pang of guilt for what she's about to do. "Warden!" he says. "It's been too long."

 

"It really has, Bann—shit—Arl. Arl Teagan."

 

"You keep saying it like it's some foreign illness or something. I  _ have _ been Arl for a good few years," grins Teagan. 

 

"I know, sorry," says Sumia, but Teagan waves her off.

 

"Just Teagan—that's that problem solved, eh?"

 

"That was my  _ plan _ ," Sumia chuckles,  "but then you called me Warden and I tripped up!"

 

"Fine. Sumia and Teagan. Teagan and Sumia. Are we clear?"

 

"Yes!"

 

"Good. Now," he says, his smile disappearing as he observes Jowan. "You'll understand my confusion when I heard you were bringing. . ."

 

"My name is Jowan," says Jowan helpfully.

 

"I know your name, blood mage," snaps Teagan. "I'm not senile yet."

 

"Please, Teagan. What good is there in berating a Tranquil?"

 

"Explain yourself, then, will you please?"

 

Sumia inhales deeply, biting into her tongue. At last she says: "I thought he should see it again. . .where Connor. . .er, well. And for my own part, I wanted to pay my respects."

 

"I suppose that's fine." Teagan can't seem to take his eyes off Jowan as he speaks. "You don't know how lucky you are to walk around free as you please when you're responsible for the  _ murder _ of my—"

 

"Teagan!" says Sumia sharply. "I'm asking you to be civil. You know he was my friend."

 

"Fine. Straight to it, then?"

 

Sumia worries her bottom lip with her teeth. "It was just outside Eamon and Isolde's old quarters."

 

"Oh, you mean  _ exactly  _ where—" Teagan tugs a wrinkle out of his starched sleeve, looking into the fireplace, which crackles merrily, even in the early morning. "All right. Come with me, then." He leads them up to the third floor, through a castle that looks largely the same as it did ten years ago, perhaps with fewer sprawling Guerrin family portraits. She knows instantly when they're getting close—not because her memory is that good, but because of the cold, terrible feeling that starts to settle in her bones.

 

She sees the door. She sees that little boy backed up against it, quivering, his eyes big as saucers, and then sees his expression change as he pounces at her again and she. . . "Maker," she says, at the smallest whisper.

 

"You know Eamon had another child afterward. Rowan, after her aunt. Another mage," says Teagan, with a lopsided smile.

 

"I had no idea." Sumia pulls her crossed arms closer to her chest. 

 

"It was an awkward thing to bring up."

 

"Where is she now? Not in the Circle."

 

"With her father at his estate. She's all of, what, ten, eleven now?"

 

"Oh."

 

"It's nothing to you now, blood mage," spits Teagan, "but I hope some part of you is stewing that you failed so miserably in your quest to wipe out the Guerrin line."

 

"I was not asked to wipe out the Guerrin line," says Jowan—how in the name of the Maker does he stay so calm?—"I was asked to keep the Arl incapacitated until Loghain Mac Tir could assume the throne."

 

"Oh, that's a bloody comfort." 

 

"Teagan."

 

"Muzzle your Tranquil friend, Sumia, and then I'll hold my tongue!"

 

"He doesn't mean anything by it. He can't."

 

"I don't especially care what he  _ means." _

 

". . .I think it was silly of me to bring Jowan here. Let me say a prayer, and we'll be out of your hair." She kneels and looks at the spot where the echo of blood still seems to stain the marble—although she knows that's stupid, marble doesn't hold liquid, and of _ course  _ Eamon would have had the place scrubbed to high heaven. She says a bit of Benedictions in her mind and then slowly scrapes herself off the floor.

 

"You might indeed have brought more pleasant company, Warden. Such as a stone with little eyes painted on. Or a live dragonling."

 

"Leave it."

 

"Will I see you again?"

 

"I'm staying with the Inquisition for the moment, so if Redcliffe has any dealings with them in the near future—who knows?" She flashes him a quick smile. "Thanks for your hospitality, Teagan. We'll see ourselves out."

 

On the second floor, out of view of Teagan or his guards, Jowan grabs hold of  Sumia and hugs her tighter than she thinks he's ever hugged her. He shudders in her arms, silently, as not to alert any of the staff. "Fucking load of bollocks, that," he whispers, coming away with bloodshot eyes and a terribly runny nose.

 

"I get it," breathes Sumia, "I understand how shitty that was for you, but what d'you think those guards are going to see when you walk out of this building looking like that?"

 

"Hay fever?" he smiles halfheartedly.

 

"In the middle of Firstfall? Maker's breath. Close your eyes."

 

"What?"

 

"Close them," says Sumia as she conjures a mild, hazy frost spell, and hovers her hands in front of his face. She gives it about half a minute and then pulls away. "Is that any better?"

 

"You tell me."

 

Sumia squints. "It's fine if no one's looking closely. Put up your hood if you're worried."

 

"I'm not the one the Arl is going to want to skin alive for lying to him—"

 

"Shut up!" Sumia hisses. "Are you mad? Let's just go. Put up your hood." She stalks out of the castle, Jowan trailing after her. 

 

She drags them back down toward the village, and then into a small tailor's shop off the main road. A little bell mounted above the door jingles pleasantly as they enter. "Morning to you," says the proprietor, a wizened dwarf.

 

"Good morning, ser," says Sumia. "I was wondering if you had any stock of plain shirts and trousers and things. My wife thinks I need more clothes."

 

"From what I've seen of you Warden types, your wife is right," says the dwarf, his eyes twinkling. "And for your friend?"

 

"The same, I think. People find him a bit unsettling as it is, I thought maybe if. . ."

 

The dwarf puts on a pair of spectacles that dangle from a chain around his neck. "Oh, you're one of those."

 

"I have been made Tranquil," Jowan supplies.

 

"Well, you both have my condolences." The dwarf clears his throat. "Average Fereldan fellow. I should have plenty in your size. For you, Warden, I might have to make some adjustments. I'll need your measurements."

 

"That's fine." She cringes at the thought, but he's quick and businesslike enough to put her at ease. The thing is done in a matter of minutes.

 

"So what exactly can I do for you?"

 

"Shall we say three shirts and three pairs of trousers each? And a pair of good shoes. And some socks," Sumia adds, casting a glance around the shop. "Maker's breath, I hardly have anything."

 

The old dwarf chuckles dryly. "If you've got the coin, I'll get you what you need. I need the shoe size, though—just step here, I'll take one off for the boots. You too, Tranquil."

 

They step in turn on a carved diagram in the floor, with numbered notches indicating size.

 

"And a belt!" Sumia bursts out.

 

"Oh, good thing you mentioned that." The dwarf glances at Jowan. "You're what, about a 33 around the middle?"

 

"34. And a half," answers Jowan, without missing a beat. Sumia raises her eyebrows at him, but he looks past her.

 

"Perfect. Come by tomorrow morning with five sovereigns, and I'll have everything for you."

 

Once they're out in the village again, Sumia looks ahead to the point where the little houses fade into open, grassy plains, and beyond that, forest. "I don't suppose you want to practice a bit of magic?" she says, in a low voice.

 

"I do not think that would be advisable."

 

"Come on! We have to spend the day somehow, and you probably want to have at least a bit of your magic back."

 

"Such as it was," says Jowan, and it's strangely comforting to actually hear him being snarky beneath that emotionless veneer.

 

"You were a very decent blood mage."

 

"I would not joke about that."

 

"Who's joking? I'm being completely sincere!" Sumia grins. "Irving always said that talent, for a mage, was about finding your niche. Just bad luck that the Chantry doesn't seem to like  _ your  _ niche very much. Come on," she says, and marches off in the direction of the plains.

 

"Sumia," says Jowan, as they maneuver through a thicket of trees, "I'm not doing blood magic."

 

"Even just a bit? For self-defense!"

 

"I'd sooner be without magic for the rest of my life."

 

"OK." Sumia holds up her hands. "You don't have to. Why don't we try, er. . .a fireball. The tiniest little fart of a fireball you've ever cast." She demonstrates, balancing a small yellow flame on her index finger. "That's all."

 

Easier said than done. After a day's practice—and a hurried lunch in between of bread and roast beef—they've tried fire, ice, earth, lightning, healing, shapeshifting, summoning, conjuring, barriers, and more that Sumia's lost track of, and the most exciting thing that's happened is with the fireball, when after an hour Jowan managed to produce a small trail of smoke and exactly two glowing embers.

 

Defeated, they retire to Redcliffe's inn for the night. "One room, or two?" asks Sumia, once they're both thoroughly sick of the ale. 

 

"I have no preference one way or the other," says Jowan.

 

"Of course you don't. I'm going to get one room with a double, then. . .because. . .I don't know about you, but I'm not going to have pleasant dreams tonight."

 

"I find that an agreeable decision."

 

"Glad you're so happy." Sumia yawns. "Is it all right with you if we go to bed now? I'm not half tired."

 

She hurriedly pays for the room and drags herself up the stairs, throws off the armor and falls into her half of the bed, sinking into the soft pillow and feeling the pleasant warmth of the duvet settling around her. Her eyes close of their own accord, and she's vaguely aware of the bed creaking as Jowan lies down next to her.

 

"Does this feel a bit nostalgic to you?" asks Jowan, and then a small huff as he blows out a candle. 

 

"How d'you mean?" Sumia mumbles.

 

"I mean when we were really little and we didn't worry about anything. Just. . . playing together, telling stories at night. Silly things."

 

"It was sort of nice in a way."

 

"At least back then it was. You remember you told me I could share your surname with you, since I didn't have one?"

 

"'f you still want it, we'll have to share between three people," Sumia grins. "Can I sleep, please?"

 

"I—yeah, sorry. Night, Mia."

 

"Night."

 

**Author's Note:**

> je te trouverai plus tard = "i'll come find you later"
> 
> a jamais et pour toujours = something like "forever and always"
> 
> merde = "shit"
> 
> eh bien = kinda like "well", like "eh bien, tu devrez aller" = "well, we should go"
> 
> allez = in the context leliana says it, it's like "oh, come on" lol


End file.
